Last week was the third consecutive book of the week with which school sent my son home to practice reading and the family it’s about is black.
Despite her initial first-generation confusion towards the phrase, it had been embedded in Sonia’s ‘reserved for home’ Guyanese Creole vocabulary.
It was Mama who bought Lal his first mask. That was more than twenty Carnivals ago and now he had developed a great fondness for wearing them.
It was the start of the rainy season. Dark clouds billowed over the setting sun, leaving the air ripe with a feeling of dread.
The moon rose this night as it had done in the days, months, and years before, as it would tomorrow and the night after that if life remained, but this night was different.
That gesture, that tightening of the hand, such a simple thing, simple but it reassures me.
Is years I waiting for God to smile on me. And is years the devil pissing on me. Sometimes I think I is the orphan child of the both a them.
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